Snow Hill. Mark Sanderson

of the cowled creatures roaming the aisles of Smithfield could have been Harry Gogg. Cursing himself for not getting a description from Percy, Johnny decided there was nothing more to be gained from hanging around the market. Besides, he needed to take refuge from the cold.

      A board outside the Cock Tavern announced that it was permitted to open at 4 a.m. “for the accommodation of persons following their lawful trade and calling as salesmen, buyers, butchers, assistants, carmen and porters and attending a public market at Smithfield”. Taking a seat at the bar, Johnny ordered a “wazzer”, the speciality of the house. It tasted like a cup of tea laced with whisky. Whatever it was, it did the trick. Soon even his toes were warm.

      Those around him were tucking into plates piled high with bacon, eggs, fried bread, sausages, liver, kidneys and black pudding. With the salty, prickly smell of raw meat still in his nostrils, Johnny made do with a cigarette.

      By half past seven most of the day’s business had been concluded so far as the market workers were concerned. A group of bummarees came in and sat in a corner.

      The landlady went over to take their orders. She was a dumpy, middle-aged woman with a mop of long, lank curls that looked as though someone had tipped a bowl of cold spaghetti over her. She did not seem to mind that their white coats were smeared with gore and had no problem countering their ribald banter with some of her own. Johnny watched in the mirror behind the bar as she served the five men their wazzers then went off to the kitchen.

      Fortified by the alcohol, he slipped off his stool and made his way to their table.

      “Sorry, mate. Never ’eard of ’im,” said the oldest, a grizzled bear of a man. His colleagues looked at each other.

      “He’s one of your lot. Look, he’s not in any trouble—I was told he may be able to help me, that’s all.”

      One of the younger ones muttered something. They all laughed.

      “There’d be a few bob in it for him,” said Johnny.

      “As I told yer, never ’eard of ’im.” The bummaree raised his voice so the whole pub could hear. “Anyone ’ere know of an ’Arry Gogg?”

      Silence fell. Everyone in the room was staring at Johnny. He returned their stares until they turned away. Slowly the conversation resumed.

      “Well, that is odd,” said Johnny sarcastically. He was riled. He hated being treated like an idiot. “Harry Gogg works in Smithfield. There can’t be that many of you—someone must know him.”

      The brute who’d spoken before lumbered to his feet. He could easily have carried half an ox on each shoulder.

      “You calling me a liar, son?”

      There was nothing Johnny could do. If he didn’t back down he’d be going head-first through the swing-doors before he knew what hit him.

      “No, no, not at all. Sorry to have disturbed you.” He retreated to the bar.

      “You’re pushing your luck,” said the landlady, introducing herself as Dolly. A pink wart nestled in the cleft between her nose and right cheek. “They’re a close-knit bunch and don’t like strangers. They’ve probably got you down as working for the taxman.” She set another wazzer in front of him and, when he insisted on paying, promised to tip him the wink if Gogg came in.

      He did not have long to wait. Harry was a winsome lad, fair-haired and fresh-faced. He scanned the room as if looking for someone then came and stood by Johnny at the bar. Although roughly the same height, he was twice as broad. He also seemed nervous. Instead of joining the other bummarees, he went and sat by himself. The only thing he ate was his thumbnail. It would be pointless talking to him now.

      Ten minutes later, Gogg drained his mug and left. Johnny, making sure he avoided eye contact with the porters, followed. His senses quickened: he was on the trail again.

      Legwork was an essential part of the job. The best stories usually involved pounding the streets: chasing leads, witnesses and suspects—sometimes literally. Johnny knew what Matt was talking about when he complained of being footsore.

      The smog was beginning to thin now. Dawn was glimmering in the east. Johnny finally caught up with Gogg as he crossed the recreation ground. The statue of Peace, erected to allay the spirits of William Wallace and others who’d been executed on this very spot, ignored them.

      “Harry Gogg?”

      The bummaree looked over his shoulder and regarded him with suspicion. He kept on walking.

      Johnny followed.

      Without looking back, Gogg asked, “Who wants to know?”

      “My name’s Johnny Steadman. I’m a reporter on the News. I was told you might have some information for me. I’m willing to pay.”

      The boy stopped to use the drinking fountain. It was frozen.

      As Johnny caught up with him, he hissed, “Don’t look at me.”

      Leaning against the fountain, Johnny stared off into the distance, trying to look casual, as if it were normal to be loitering in the freezing cold.

      A moment later he heard the boy whisper: “Information about what?”

      “The death of a young man on Saturday night.”

      “Jesus Christ!” The lad looked round the park in panic. Shapes seemed to shift at its edges. “We can’t talk here. Follow me…Wait! Don’t make it obvious. Keep your distance.”

      They left West Smithfield and entered Cloth Fair. Johnny hoped they were not going far: he was supposed to be at the office by now. Well, if questioned, he could honestly say he had started work hours ago.

      Around him the medieval houses leaned out over the street as though whispering gossip to each other. Through the gloom he could just make out Gogg’s chunky frame on the left. He assumed the boy was heading for the pub on the corner of Rising Sun Court. However, when he reached it he suddenly veered across the lane and disappeared into an alley which ran alongside St Bartholomew-the-Great. Hesitating to check that he had been seen, he then went into the church.

      A few moments later, as the bells in the brick tower chimed eight o’clock, Johnny raised the latch and pushed open the heavy oak door.

      Although he had often heard the evening peal of London’s oldest parish church on his way to meet Matt, he had never been inside its flint-flecked walls before. He walked down the long nave. The black tiled floor was dangerously uneven. Gogg was waiting for him beside the choir screen, which showed monks going about their daily business. It looked brand new.

      “We should be safe here. Let’s see the colour of your money.”

      The ten-shilling note brought the pink back to Gogg’s cheeks. It was the equivalent of a day’s earnings. His melting brown eyes darted here and there, seeking eavesdroppers. His cowlick flickered in a draught. Satisfied that the church was empty, he nodded in the direction of the choir-stalls and they took a seat.

      “Why did your colleagues say they didn’t know you in the pub?”

      “Sheer bloody-mindedness. I’m not exactly popular round here.”

      “Why not?”

      “It’s a long story—and it’s not why you’re here.”

      “True.” Johnny would have liked to hear the story nonetheless. Nosiness was another prerequisite of the job. “Okay, first I’d like to assure you that whatever you tell me will be in the strictest confidence.”

      “I’ve heard that before. Who put you on to me?”

      “A friend. No names—I don’t betray confidences, remember? What can you tell me about a dead cop?”

      The porter froze.

      “He was a cop? A bloody cop? That fucking bastard—he didn’t tell me that. I knew